


Hell Tastes Like Honey

by alpha_exodus, chachisoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Dancing, M/M, Reckless Harry Potter, Teasing, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/chachisoo/pseuds/chachisoo
Summary: Malfoy is a vampire. Entirely unrelatedly, Harry wants to fuck him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 970





	Hell Tastes Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! welcome to our terrible sexy vampire draco collab - fic by alpha_exodus and art by cree! we hope you enjoy it as much as we enjoyed putting this together!!
> 
> thanks to mattie (feelsforbreakfast) for preventing the fic portion of this from being thrown at the wall, i.e. being as always a lovely and wonderful beta. title is from the english ver of (g)-idle's 'oh my god'.

It’s not the first time Harry’s been out on Knockturn late on a job. Most of the alley’s shop owners don’t want to be seen with a Ministry-appointed ward-builder during the day lest it incite distrust from their seedier customers, but they need him, and Harry is one of the few in his small department who doesn’t mind taking the more dangerous jobs.

They can’t hurt him, after all. No one can.

So no, it’s not the first time he’s been out in the underbelly of Diagon at midnight, walking back to the Apparition point after a job. It’s just that it’s the first time he’s turned a corner to see Draco Malfoy sitting on a stoop, smoking a cigarette.

Malfoy hasn’t noticed him yet, and Harry comes to a standstill several paces back, unsure what to say. He’s not really sure he wants to say anything at all. He’s tired from the job—building a complex and rather nasty set of wards for a new potions shop where the owner refused to let Harry out of his sight, which makes Harry certain he’s hiding some sort of not-at-all-legal activity—and really he just wants to go home and pass out in his bed.

The only thing stopping him from doing just that is the fact that it’s _Draco Malfoy_.

Harry hasn’t seen him in years, not since the aftermath of the war, most of which he’s forgotten anyway. He was numb then—he’s still numb now, sometimes. He likes it better than being angry or being sad, but he can’t really escape any of those emotions, unless he’s working or out at the club or, rarely, at the Weasley Sunday brunch.

Malfoy is lounging carelessly on the stoop in a t-shirt and trousers, cigarette between two fingers as he releases a smoky breath. His blond hair shines in the moonlight. He’s wearing it differently than he used to, Harry notices, coiffed instead of slicked back—it’s not a bad change. His eyes are dark in the night, and he’s pale, paler than Harry remembered, his mouth pink in contrast as he takes another pull on the cigarette.

He’s, quite frankly, fit.

Harry kind of hates himself for thinking that. Still, he can’t help the way his body is starting to respond to Malfoy’s presence, adrenaline building in a way he hasn’t felt in ages. Only this time, it’s not because he wants to fight him.

Fuck.

Of course, it’s just as Harry’s standing there in the middle of the sidewalk trying to convince himself to leave before he makes a stupid decision that Malfoy catches sight of him.

Malfoy eyes him up and down, and Harry can see the exact moment when he realizes who Harry is—Malfoy sits up immediately, alert. Something strange happens to his eyes then, something Harry can’t quite tell from this distance, but there’s a small voice in Harry’s head that for some reason is telling him: ‘ _danger_.’

Then Malfoy opens his mouth and says, “Potter,” and Harry can see that some of his teeth have gone pointy, like—

Like fangs.

Since when, he wonders, has Malfoy been a vampire?

He doesn’t realize that he’s moving closer until he’s already taken a few steps, his eyes locked on Malfoy’s, arousal spiking deep in his veins. He can’t look away. His mouth goes dry, his heartbeat speeds—and for the first time in a very long while, he’s afraid. He tries to break out of it, pushes and shoves with his magic, but it seems like Malfoy’s pull is stronger than Harry, dragging him ever closer. He hasn’t been so overpowered by someone’s magic in years.

It’s exhilarating.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says, even though part of him knows exactly what’s happening—he learned about vampires at Hogwarts just like everyone else. He knows how they attract their prey: by making themselves irresistible, luring them in, leaving them helpless to escape.

Then Malfoy blinks, and just like that, the need to be closer to him fades away completely. Malfoy’s teeth retract and his eyes go back to normal, and Harry can move on his own again.

He still wants him. That part stays, tingling frustratingly beneath his skin, making him want to do reckless things. He wonders what would happen if he kissed Malfoy, but he thinks that Malfoy would just as soon tear him apart if he tried.

“Sorry,” Malfoy mutters, looking away and taking another drag of his cigarette. Harry doesn’t think he really means the apology, and it puts him a little on edge. “I was caught off guard.”

“Sure you were,” Harry says, and Malfoy’s eyes flash.

“You can go, you know,” Malfoy says, his voice carefully blank.

Harry’s annoyed by it, this careful indifference. He’s used to Malfoy rising up to meet him, just as ready to fight as Harry was. Then again, Harry’s changed recently as well; he barely does anything except work lately. But that doesn’t make him any less irritated at the way Malfoy’s barely reacting to his presence.

“Well,” he says, voice coming out gruff, betraying his frustration. He clears his throat. “It was nice to see you.”

Malfoy doesn’t dignify him with a proper response—only a mere arch of his brow, one that seems to say, _was it, now?_

Harry swallows against the surge of exasperation in his chest and forces himself to walk away. He walks to the Apparition point, Apparates home, and crawls into bed.

He doesn’t pass out, not immediately. Instead he lies there and thinks of Draco Malfoy.

xXx

It takes him three different jobs worth of coincidentally walking by Malfoy’s stoop on the way home for Harry to admit that he’s doing it on purpose. Sure, it’s just the fastest way to the Apparition point, but he can’t deny that he wants to see him again.

But Malfoy never appears.

It occurs to Harry that it's stupid to expect to see him during the day. Malfoy’s a vampire; of course he wouldn’t be out in the sun. He supposes that theoretically it might not even have been Malfoy’s stoop. Just because he was sitting there doesn’t mean he _lives_ there—it could’ve been a friend’s place. Or a lover’s, he thinks, with a frustrated twist in his chest that feels almost like jealousy.

He knows seeking Malfoy out is probably dangerous and ill-advised—Hermione and Ron would certainly say so. He doesn’t tell them about it for precisely that reason, even though several questions burn in his throat the next time he joins them for dinner— _did you know that Malfoy was turned?_ Still, he can’t help feeling like he and Malfoy left things unfinished last time, having barely said a word to each other, and it’s driving him mad.

He wants to know who Malfoy is now, whether he’s gotten any better about his stupid pureblood bullshit, wonders if he’s still a pretentious arse. Sometimes he dreams of Malfoy, and in his dreams Malfoy’s pupils turn into slits and his teeth grow sharp and he stands just a few paces too far away, a slow smirk on his lips. Harry wakes up hard and jerks himself off with his eyes squeezed shut, then afterwards wills it to go away, this awful, reckless wanting.

When he finally sees Malfoy again, over a month later, he almost doesn’t believe it. He blinks, expecting Malfoy to disappear, no more than a late night hallucination—but Malfoy stays, sat on the stoop in a white Muggle dress shirt and trousers, cigarette in hand.

Harry steps closer.

He stands in front of him and almost asks, ‘do you come here often?’, except that’s one of the most fucking idiotic things he could say right now and not a terribly good pick-up line besides. Suddenly panicked, he tries to think of something else to say, but Malfoy looks up and spots him before he can get a word in.

“You again,” Malfoy says, sounding disinterested at best, and there’s a pang in Harry’s stomach.

Malfoy doesn’t give a fuck about him, he thinks. Malfoy doesn’t even care that he’s standing here, even though he’s gone and somehow invaded Harry’s thoughts like a deep-reaching curse. Frustration flashes through him, and for a moment he has the urge to snatch the cigarette out of Malfoy’s hand and throw it somewhere, or maybe to even punch him in the face. Unfortunately neither of those is a very good idea, considering Malfoy proved last time that he can put him in an all-encompassing trance faster than Harry can reach his wand.

Instead Harry gestures at the cigarette, annoyed, and says, “Don’t you know those are bad for you?”

Slowly, Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “I’m undead, Potter,” Malfoy drawls. “Nothing’s bad for me. Except, you know, the sun.”

Right. Harry jerks his gaze away, because again Malfoy hasn’t taken the bait. Harry hates it. Fighting with Malfoy is much easier to understand than the sheer indifference Malfoy has on his face. If Harry had any sense he would leave right now and cut his losses; despite the lust thrumming in Harry’s veins, it’s obvious Malfoy doesn’t want him here, doesn’t feel the same.

But if he leaves, he probably won’t see him again.

He knows immediately that he doesn’t want to risk that. He’ll do whatever it takes, he thinks, to figure out what exactly Malfoy’s getting at with this stupid air of nonchalance. He’s always been a little obsessed with Malfoy, and it feels like here, out in the quiet, chilly Knockturn night, he might almost be able to have him.

“Do you live here?” he asks, and Malfoy’s mouth tips downwards into a scowl—Malfoy must be putting out danger signals of some sort because Harry suddenly has the urge to turn and run. He ignores it. Fight or flight, they say. He’s choosing fight, to make Malfoy pay attention to him, and he knows he’s being stubborn at this point but the image of Malfoy sitting on the stoop with that fucking cigarette is getting under his skin in a way he hasn’t felt since Hogwarts.

He wants to affect Malfoy just like Malfoy has so obviously affected him.

He expects Malfoy to challenge him, or maybe simply to not respond. Instead Malfoy sighs disdainfully and says, “Yes, Potter, I live here. Why else would I be sitting on the front step?”

Harry ignores the question. “When did you...?” he waves a hand in Malfoy’s general direction, thinking of sharp teeth and riveting eyes.

Malfoy’s eyebrows raise. “When did I... move here? Start smoking? Use your words, Potter.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “When did you turn?”

“Ah, the question of the year, isn’t it?” Malfoy says, leaning back with an elbow on the step above him. With the other hand, he stubs out his cigarette, then tosses it up into the air and Vanishes it wandlessly.

It shouldn’t be hot. Harry’s heart thumps painfully in his chest.

The top two buttons of Malfoy’s dress shirt are undone, his brain oh-so-helpfully notices, revealing a pale neck and a hint of collarbone. His lips are redder than Harry remembers. Harry thinks about what would happen if Malfoy were to kiss him—to mouth at his neck, to _bite_ him, fuck—and he has to hold back a shiver.

“I was bitten after the war, obviously,” Malfoy says, looking past Harry, out at the street behind him. “About six months later, give or take. After that my father disowned me, and I moved here. And took up smoking, as you can see.”

Of course Lucius Malfoy would care about blood purity more than his own child. Harry scowls, but before he can say anything about it, Malfoy rolls his eyes.

“Yes, my father’s a racist arsehole, but it’s not what you’re thinking—Mother’s probably part Veela, at any rate.” He pauses, scrunching up his face as if trying to remember, then he shrugs. “No matter. Anyway, he disowned me because I’m gay, not because I’m a vampire.”

“What a fucking bigot,” Harry says immediately, so disgusted by it that there’s part of him that actually feels sorry for Malfoy. He wonders if he’s ever felt sorry for Malfoy in his life, but his brain immediately brings him back to images of Malfoy on the bathroom floor, bleeding in his arms, and a lump forms so violently in his throat that he forces himself to stop thinking about it.

“Oh, that’s just the short version,” Malfoy explains, flipping a hand in the air dismissively. “The long version is: I went out to too many seedy clubs trying to fuck men, and one of those men accidentally happened to be a vampire. Alas.” He gestures at himself. “Irresponsible, Father called it. At least the sex was good.”

Harry’s mind is still reeling from the fact that Malfoy’s just said all of that so casually. He wanted a response from him, and he’d certainly gotten it, but it’s had the unfortunate side effect of making him want Malfoy even more. His mouth has gone dry again, and he clears his throat in vain. “That’s still awful.”

“Of course it is,” Malfoy says. “But there’s nothing I can do about it now, so here we are.” He throws Harry a look of sardonic amusement. “Are you done pestering me about my life?”

Harry bristles. “Well, you answered in the first place.”

“What was I supposed to do? Ignore you?”

“Or tell me to fuck off,” Harry says.

Malfoy fixes him with a thoughtful look. “But you don’t want me to tell you to fuck off,” he says, crossing his ankle over the other knee. “Do you?”

It’s a challenge, Harry thinks, one he’s not quite sure how to respond to. In the end, he crosses his arms and says, “If I wanted you to I would’ve left by now, don’t you think?”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “What are you playing at, Potter?”

Harry shrugs. “You disappeared. I’m just curious.” It’s an understatement; he’s been thinking about Malfoy virtually for the whole month since he last saw him.

Malfoy snorts. “Fine. You have more questions? Go on then.”

“Do you...” Harry stops, unsure if he actually wants to know the answer to this. “You. Er. You drink blood.”

“Wow, yes, I never noticed,” Malfoy says drily.

Harry rolls his eyes and mutters, “You know what I mean.”

“What? Are you asking if I, what, kill for it?” When Harry nods, Malfoy scoffs at him. “Tch. No, of course not. You may not know this, Potter, but murder is illegal whether you’re human or not.”

Harry’s a little annoyed at the subtle insult, but more so he’s relieved, because if he has to suffer through wanting to fuck Malfoy in the first place then at least Malfoy’s not a literal murderer.

It suddenly dawns on Harry why Malfoy’s sitting out here on his stoop, looking so striking—almost like it’s intentional, like it’s meant to draw people in. To draw victims in. Harry too has been caught in Malfoy’s trap, only Malfoy barely even cares that Harry’s here. He’s not interested, probably because he still hates him. Harry supposes he hasn’t given him any reason not to.

“So you sit here and...” Harry waves a hand. “Wait for people.”

“Yes. If I’m not pulling at the club instead.”

“Do they know? That you’re a vampire?”

“Of course,” Malfoy says, giving him an odd look. “I’d think it’s rather obvious. They know what they want—a good shag, and then I drink my fill and they leave. I’m careful of course—you don’t turn someone unless you get carried away, you know. Though I’ve gotten close now and again.”

Harry thinks of Malfoy touching someone else, kissing them, biting at their neck and drinking from them and almost losing control and he has to clench his teeth against the surge of jealousy that roars to life in his chest. He wants that so much it scares him.

But Malfoy only eyes him silently for a moment, stretching, cracking his neck. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go back to waiting for my next shag...?”

Of course Malfoy wouldn’t want _him_. It’s clear Malfoy’s not even regarding him in that way, and anyway it was idiotic for Harry to even think it was possible.

“Whatever, Malfoy,” he says finally. He forces himself to turn, to start walking away.

Unfortunately, he can’t stop himself from looking back.

Malfoy’s still eyeing him from the stoop, bathed in a swathe of moonlight that makes his pale skin glow. Fuck.

“Listen,” Harry starts, in an understatement of the century—“You look good.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, so fast Harry almost thinks he imagined it. “Potter,” Malfoy says, sitting up, his eyebrow raising incredulously. “You’re not...”

Harry’s heart is in his throat. “What?”

“You’re not propositioning me,” Malfoy says. “Are you?”

Harry’s face flames. He can’t meet Malfoy’s eyes. “I dunno,” he says, throwing absolutely all of his caution out the window. “What if I am?”

“Potter...” Malfoy says, looking for the first time as if he’s been caught off guard. He looks away. “Well. Usually I at least make potential suitors take me out for drinks beforehand.”

“You make them take _you_ out?” Harry asks, his eyebrows shooting up. “Before you drink their blood?”

“Maybe,” Malfoy says haughtily. “Or maybe you’re a special exception.”

Harry’s heart stutters. “What does that even mean?”

Slowly, Malfoy smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 _Merlin_. Harry swallows thickly. This is such an awful idea. Truly, it would be so easy for Malfoy to humiliate him—and honestly Harry would probably deserve it. He’s fucking asking for trouble by encouraging this. He supposes worst case Malfoy might kill him, accidentally or otherwise, though part of him—the part of him that’s still trapped on the Astronomy Tower—wants to say that Malfoy wouldn’t do that. But there’d be a sick sort of irony to bleeding out in Malfoy’s arms, a twisted parody of their sixth year on the bathroom floor.

So maybe Malfoy is dangerous and maybe he’s still cruel. Harry wants him anyway. Malfoy’s not even using his vampire coercion on him, but Harry couldn’t walk away from this if he tried.

“So,” he says, looking at Malfoy, who’s gazing at him coolly. “Drinks?”

xXx

Malfoy takes him to a seedy little bar right at the edge of Muggle London, the kind that makes Harry wish he’d thought to Glamour himself beforehand. It’s just starting to sink in that he’s really here, really with Draco fucking Malfoy in a bar, about to order drinks for the both of them.

He resists the urge to pinch himself.

He buys their drinks, fumbling in his pocket to quickly Transfigure some Galleons into Muggle money, and then they make their way to a sticky booth by the wall. There’s an awkward minute where both of them sip their drinks in silence, looking everywhere except each other—then that minute extends to two minutes, then three, until finally Harry feels like he’s going to explode if someone doesn’t say something.

So he opens his mouth and asks, “Is this really how you seduce all of your conquests?”

He hadn’t meant it to be abrasive. But it came out like that anyway.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Most of my conquests are far less insufferable than you are, first of all. Second of all, I’m usually far more drunk at this point. Thirdly...” He looks Harry up and down, and Harry is suddenly vividly aware of the ratty old Weasley jumper he’s wearing. He’s pretty sure there’s a coffee stain down the front. “Well.”

Harry huffs, jealousy and shame sparking at his edges all at once. “If you’re so put off by me then, why even bother?”

“A good question for once,” Malfoy says, expression schooled blank as he sets his glass of whiskey down on the table. His eyes narrow. “Give me one reason why I should sleep with you.”

Truth be told, Harry’s not sure he has one, besides the fact that he’s willing to maybe let Malfoy drink his blood—but there’s no way he’s going to say that aloud. “Don’t you think it might be fun?” he asks instead.

“Not really,” Malfoy says, and fuck, there goes that. “Not enough to actually do it, at least.”

Harry stares at Malfoy, a pang of confusion hitting him. “Wait. You don’t want to?”

“You didn’t think we were _actually_ going to sleep together?” Malfoy asks, eyebrows rising. “Don’t you realize how absurd that is? We’ve been practically enemies for half our lives, so pardon me if I don’t fucking trust you.”

“Well, why not?” Harry asks, feeling put off.

“Why _not_ ,” Malfoy scoffs, leaning back and tossing one arm carelessly over the back of the booth. “Why don’t I trust you? Besides the fact that you spent half your time at school trying to get me in trouble? I’ve heard about you lately. Always conveniently working jobs down Knockturn, snooping around where you don’t belong. Just like you always were in school, aren’t you? What, are you some undercover Auror?”

“I’m _not_ —”

“Don’t bother,” Malfoy cuts in, his teeth going just a bit sharp. “I only brought you here so I could see what the fuck you’re up to.”

Harry stares at him, shocked. Then he scowls. “Fine, Malfoy. What, then? Why exactly do you think I’m here?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Malfoy asks, raising his eyebrows. “Probably trying to investigate me for some reason—trying to shut down my potions shop, or get me evicted, or make my life miserable just like all the other Aurors who like to pry into my affairs every now and then.”

Harry blinks at him, not quite processing all of that at once. “You have a shop?”

“Playing dumb, are we now?” Malfoy says, leaning forward, looking highly unimpressed. “Of course I have a fucking shop, Potter. It’s right below my flat, I’m not going to believe you didn’t _notice_ it.”

Harry, indeed, hadn’t noticed it, but he thinks it would probably be more embarrassing to admit that than to just let Malfoy think he’s just a shit undercover Auror. This whole thing is a lost cause.

“Whatever, Malfoy,” he says, picking up his glass and tossing back the rest of his whiskey. “Think whatever you want to think. Good to see _you_ haven’t changed either, you overdramatic arse.” He gets up. “And for the record, _no_ , I’m not an undercover Auror. I quit the Aurors during training because my entire life was going to shit and they told me they were going to hold me back from graduating because I wasn’t ‘enough of a team player.’ So thanks for assuming I’m only here to fuck with you, feels brilliant. Cheers.” He slams his glass down on the table.

A shadow crosses Malfoy’s face. “You quit the Aurors.”

Harry is fuming, and the logical thing to do would be to leave immediately. Instead, for who knows what reason, he hesitates. “Yeah? So what?”

“It wasn’t in the papers,” Malfoy says, brow furrowing.

Ah, yes. The department’s one gift to him upon leaving, the only strings he’s ever felt like pulling—making sure there weren’t any terrible interviews with the Prophet when he transferred out. “You were looking?”

Malfoy looks up at him and makes a face. “Not on _purpose_ , I just. I hadn’t heard, you know.”

“You _were_ looking,” Harry says, and it shouldn’t make him feel so vindicated that Malfoy’s been paying attention to him—it’s _ridiculous_ , considering Malfoy clearly isn’t even interested—but it does anyway.

“Fine,” Malfoy mutters. “I went and looked you up after the first time you walked by my flat, all right? Now sit down, Potter.”

Harry sits. Then he’s promptly embarrassed by how quickly he’d followed Malfoy’s command, almost embarrassed enough to get up again and walk right out the door.

He doesn’t, of course. As unfortunate as it is, there’s still part of him that’s overwhelmingly curious about Malfoy—not to mention the terrible part that wants to fuck him.

Malfoy regards him carefully, then lets out a long sigh. As if reading Harry’s mind, he asks, “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that you’re really only sitting here because you wanted to sleep with me, do you?”

Harry feels his face go red. “Why should I say it if you’re not going to believe me?”

Malfoy’s lips quirk up at the edges. “Interesting.”

Harry is incredibly annoyed at how quickly Malfoy is making him forget he was angry in the first place, especially since it’s mostly because Malfoy is unfairly hot, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the bar. It’s distracting, how hot he is. “So why’d you bother making me sit back down?” he asks, in an effort to stop thinking about how much he wants to fuck him. “Thought you’d want to be rid of me by now.”

“Curiosity,” Malfoy says, shrugging. “Like I said, I couldn’t find much about you in the papers. Just your falling out with Ginny Weasley, and then...” He makes a hand gesture to indicate ‘nothing.’

“That wasn’t a big deal,” Harry says, because it wasn’t. His relationship with Ginny had unraveled pretty much the same way everything else in his life had at the time, slowly slipping away until he turned to look and realized it was gone. “I started working as a ward-builder with the Ministry after I quit the Aurors. I have a flat down a side-street of Diagon.” He shrugs and tries not to think about how his life is patently uninteresting nowadays—he gets up and he works too much and sometimes he sees Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys, and then he goes home. Sometimes if he focuses on his routine enough, he can almost forget about the war, about how lonely and angry he is and the terrible, messy turns his life has taken.

“Hm,” Malfoy says, taking a sip of his drink. “No wonder you haven’t been in the papers. You haven’t been doing _anything_.”

“I don’t even take the Prophet anymore. Wouldn’t know if I was.”

“Funny, I don’t take it either.”

“Think they’re slandering you?”

Malfoy makes a sound that is dangerously close to a chuckle. “Probably. Hoping every day that it pisses Father off.”

Harry snorts. Then he takes a chance and says something brazen. “Think it’d piss him off if we fucked and got caught?”

Malfoy looks surprised. “How very Slytherin of you, Potter. Yes, it probably would.” His eyes narrow the slightest bit. “But I’m not interested.”

He’s really not interested. Fuck. Harry has to hide the disappointment that blooms in his chest. He’s got no way to prove that he’s not hiding anything, and there’s no point in pushing the subject, not when Malfoy’s so clearly rejecting him. “I’m going to get another drink,” he says instead, because shame is trying to swallow him alive and he needs it if he’s going to keep talking to Malfoy like this.

He returns with another whiskey, and he’s barely sat down when Malfoy immediately starts in with, “Honestly, Potter, I didn’t even know you were into men.”

Harry briefly debates just telling him to fuck off, or asking him why the hell he cares. In the end, he sighs and says, “It’s a bit of a new development, all right?” Which is true, if by ‘new development’ he means that he’s known for several years, but that Hermione and Ron and some of the Weasleys know and literally no one else.

“Hm,” Malfoy says, sipping his own drink slowly. “So, tell me if I’m misunderstanding this, but—you’re working an unglamorous Ministry job, you haven’t been seeing anyone basically since Hogwarts, and you like men but you haven’t even managed to seduce one?”

“I never said that last part,” Harry protests, a little stung because it’s not true and also, for all intents and purposes, he _had_ been trying to seduce Malfoy. Not that it worked. “Anyway, I like my job.”

Malfoy ignores his objections, leaning back against the booth. “Let’s say I believe all of this is true, and you’re not undercover or something.”

“I’m not!”

“All right, all right,” Malfoy says. “Fine, whatever. Anyway, in essence, you’re telling me that you’re completely and utterly boring now?”

Harry would be an idiot to say yes to that, even if he privately agrees, so he just gives Malfoy a look of mild horror. “What? No—”

“You _are_ ,” Malfoy accuses. “What ever happened to the Potter I knew from Hogwarts? Get a _life_.”

“Like you can talk,” Harry mutters. “You’re literally a vampire. You can’t even be out during the day.”

“That’s precisely why I’m annoyed. You have the ability to have a normal, regular, possibly grand life and you’re squandering it.” Malfoy scoffs. “You’re the fucking Chosen One.”

“I was,” Harry corrects.

“What?”

“I was the Chosen One. Now I’m just Harry,” he says, unable to help the tinge of bitterness of his voice—he resists the urge to tack on, ‘ _and my life sucks_ ,’ because he thinks that would probably hurt his case rather than help it.

“Well, ‘just Harry,’ you’re either very bad at describing your life or you—” Malfoy throws his hands up in indignation. “I just cannot believe it. Do you ever do anything fun?”

Harry is growing increasingly alarmed by this line of questioning. He’s even more alarmed at the way his heart had started to race when Malfoy said his name. “I go to dinner at Ron and Hermione’s all the time—”

“No, no,” Malfoy says. “Like _fun_. Hobbies? Flying? Do you still play Quidditch?”

Honestly, Harry hasn’t owned a broom since he lost his Firebolt during the war. He can’t remember the last time he flew. His face must say as much, because Malfoy’s expression only grows more bewildered. “No, but why does it matter?”

Malfoy again ignores him. “No regular events? Charity balls? Grand fundraisers? Come _on_ , Potter, you could get a VIP invitation to any Wizarding event you wanted!”

“I hate those,” Harry says, scowling. This is starting to feel like it does sometimes with Ron and Hermione, where they try to get him to go out and _do_ things. He’s fine on his own, thank you very much.

Malfoy puts his forehead in one hand, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Salazar, he’s wasting his life away! Pitiful!”

More than a little annoyed by the fact that Malfoy’s now referring to him in the third person, Harry only frowns further. “Look. Are you just keeping me here to insult me? I can leave.”

“Well _obviously_ you can leave,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes. “And anyway, if you’re so insulted—which, I don’t know what you expected considering I’m me and you’re you and we’ve been insulting each other since we were eleven—then, pray tell, why are you still here?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Harry says, clutching at his glass a little too hard. The real reason is somewhere between a combination of slight masochism and of hoping Malfoy will change his mind about sleeping with him, but that last bit is seeming less and less likely as they keep talking. “I _should_ leave. I could be sleeping right now.”

“But,” Malfoy says, looking at him in a way that makes Harry feel like he’s seeing way too much—“you don’t want to.”

Harry hates that he’s right. Merlin. “Well, you don’t want me to leave either,” he points out, knowing as soon as he says it that it’s true.

Malfoy looks away, eyes unreadable. “Maybe not.”

“You’re just as curious about me as I am about you,” Harry continues. “It’s why you even bothered answering my questions about your life in the first place, isn’t it? And why you interrogated me about mine?”

“You know what? You were right. It’s a good time to leave,” Malfoy says, and drains his drink.

“Oh, for the love of—you’re such a fucking coward,” Harry hisses at him.

Malfoy stills, looking faintly distressed for the smallest of moments. “Of course I am,” he says, face hardening into steel. “Didn’t you know? It’s the Malfoy way.”

“Oh?” Harry says, and then, in what is probably a bad decision—“Thought you weren’t a Malfoy anymore, hm?”

Malfoy looks shocked. Then he frowns sharply. “That’s low, even for you.”

Harry almost feels bad about it. “Sorry,” he says curtly.

“You’re not sorry.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Harry admits, meeting his gaze. “You’ve been giving me hell all night.”

“Well,” Malfoy says, eyes flaring, “Excuse me if I’m having trouble believing that my old school rival wants to get off with me for the hell of it.”

“I do,” Harry admits, voice low and rough.

Malfoy stares at him. “If you’re fucking with me...”

“I’m not, okay?” Harry insists, meeting his eyes, desire lancing through him. “I’m not.”

Slowly, Malfoy nods. “All right. But.”

“But you’re still not going to,” Harry guesses, feeling bitter.

“Even if I think it might be—interesting,” Malfoy concedes, “It’s not worth the fuss if it were to get out. No one would believe you’d done it of your own accord. They’d say I cursed you.”

Harry hates how easily he can imagine that happening, can imagine garish headlines like _Chosen One Bewitched by Ex-Death Eater & Vampire Draco Malfoy_. “Fine,” he says, “I get it.” He supposes he’ll have to be happy enough with the fact that at least Malfoy’s not completely disgusted at the thought of sleeping with him.

Malfoy is silent for a long moment. Then he sighs. “You want to know why I didn’t want you to leave earlier?”

Harry nods.

“I’m just fucking lonely,” Malfoy says, a sour expression on his face. “And now I’ve gone and admitted it. Isn’t that fucking pitiful? Almost as pitiful as you are.”

Harry scowls. “I’m not the one who got disowned,” he points out, regretting it a little when Malfoy winces.

“Low blow, Potter,” Malfoy says.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“No, I—” Harry sighs. “I am. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Salazar, Harry Potter is apologizing to me,” Malfoy says, eyebrows raising. “Never thought I’d live to see the day—or, ha, well, I didn’t. I’m undead. Anyway, the point is that I am a vampire, only allowed to be out at night, and my life is ten times more fun and interesting than yours.”

“But even if that’s true—which I doubt—you told me already you’re still lonely,” Harry says.

“Yes,” Malfoy says, levelling a gaze at him. “Aren’t you?”

Harry sighs. He stares down at a few droplets of unknown liquid on the table and thinks of his friends, his family—and then he thinks about working too much so they can’t see how bloody unhappy he is, of crawling into bed alone in his empty flat, thinking he’d give anything for something more. “I suppose you’re right.”

Malfoy dips his head in a way that says ‘I told you so’. “For me it comes with the vampire territory,” he explains. “People don’t stick around long. And of course now I’m fucking immortal, so this is just how it’s going to be until someone puts a stake through me.”

“Does that happen?” Harry asks, vaguely alarmed. “The whole—staking thing?”

“Of course it does. Did you not pay attention in History of Magic?”

Harry thinks he probably spent more time doodling in his notebook with Ron than listening to Binns. “Not really,” he admits.

“There are anti-vampire extremists just like there are for all other magical creatures,” Malfoy explains. “It’s whatever. I made my peace with it when I got turned.”

Harry thinks of Malfoy getting turned, and then an unwanted image appears in his mind, of the other vampire holding Malfoy down on the bed, hovering over him, and he has to shove the image away. “Getting turned—did it hurt?” he asks, and he’s unsure if the question is crossing some sort of line, but the words are already out so he can’t take it back.

“When I was bit? I think so,” Malfoy says, mouth twisting for a moment, and then he shrugs. “Or—I suppose I don’t actually remember most of it. I woke up several days later in that shitty motel room, and he was gone, and I was... like this.”

“That sounds horrifying,” Harry says, and means it.

Malfoy waves it off. “I was fine—that part was better than coming home and getting laid into by Father, by far—no, don’t you dare apologize, I can see it in your eyes. _You_ have no room to talk with the state of your supposed life right now.”

Harry frowns. “It’s not _that_ bad. And you have yet to describe just what makes your life so fun and interesting anyhow.”

“Well, maybe I’ll show you sometime,” Malfoy says. “If you’re lucky.”

Harry hates immediately knowing that he’d jump at the chance to do so. “Maybe,” he says instead, casting a discreet Tempus. He’s surprised to realize that it’s nearly two in the morning, and he grimaces, downing the rest of his drink. “I really should go.”

“I should do the same,” Malfoy says, moving his empty glass to the edge of the table. “Places to go, blood to drink, you know.”

Harry’s horrified to realize he’s jealous again, jealous at the thought that Malfoy’s going to go off now to find some bloke to fuck and Harry’s going to end up home alone—just like always. Merlin, he really is pitiful, isn’t he?

They get up, and Harry sulks as they make their way out of the bar and into the crisp fall air. He reluctantly turns in the direction of what he thinks is the nearest Apparition point, away from Malfoy—except Malfoy stops him.

“Wait,” Malfoy says, and tilts his head down the alleyway. “I want to show you something.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, and like an idiot, he follows him.

Which is how, seconds later, he ends up thrown against the brick wall of the bar, Malfoy leaning in toward him, his hands braced above Harry’s shoulders. Harry can smell the whiskey on his breath.

“What the fuck?” Harry says, because suddenly Malfoy’s face is very, very close, and Harry’s entire body feels like it’s on fire.

“Hm?” Malfoy asks. “I should think it would be rather obvious.”

“But I thought you didn’t—want me,” Harry says, though really, he should stop protesting. His heart is pounding so fast he almost thinks it might explode.

Malfoy’s lips quirk. “I never said that.”

Then Malfoy leans in. Harry shuts his eyes, shuddering at the tickle of Malfoy’s breath on his mouth.

And then... nothing.

Harry blinks his eyes open again to see Malfoy pulling away, a smirk on his lips.

“What the fuck?” Harry complains.

“So you _weren’t_ lying when you said you were attracted to me,” Malfoy says with no small amount of glee.

“Of course I wasn’t, you prat!” Harry crosses his arms.

“Hmm,” Malfoy says, gaze suddenly serious, searching, and Harry wishes that wasn’t enough to make him start to go hard. Except it is. “Can I see your neck?”

Oh. Fuck. Harry stares at him for a moment, thinking that this really is a terrible idea. He shouldn’t want this as much as he does.

But he _does_ want it. He can’t help it.

So he swallows thickly and nods. His breath starts coming faster then, as he tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck, feeling bare and vulnerable with Malfoy standing right there, oh God.

He jumps when Malfoy puts a hand on his shoulder, Malfoy’s thumb hooking into the collar of his jumper and pulling it down and out of the way. The night air is cool on his skin, in sharp contrast to the warmth of Malfoy’s breath on Harry’s neck as he slowly leans closer.

Then Malfoy presses his lips to Harry’s skin, open-mouthed, and Harry shudders as the sensation goes straight to his cock.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles, his whole face warm, his body tensed in anticipation for the pinch of pain as Malfoy’s lips move—

Except Malfoy doesn’t bite him.

Instead Malfoy steps away again, laughing, and Harry stares at him incredulously. “What is your problem?” he spits out. He’s far more upset and embarrassed at Malfoy not biting him than he should be, and God, he’s so turned on.

Malfoy smirks at him then, which Harry resents. “Upon reflecting, I’ve decided it’s much more fun to rile you up like this than by insulting you,” Malfoy says matter-of-factly.

Harry stares at him, open-mouthed, as Malfoy turns and starts to walk away, still laughing. “Good to know you’re just as much of a prat as you always were,” Harry complains, loud enough for Malfoy to hear.

“Never said I wasn’t, did I? See you, Potter,” Malfoy says, waving a hand, the other hand in his pocket.

And Harry’s left half-hard in an empty alleyway, still staring at the place where Malfoy had been.

xXx

Harry can’t help the wave of disappointment that slowly saps his energy the next day. He’s hurt, he thinks, that Malfoy didn’t want Harry as much as Harry wants him. Fuck, he’s kind of convinced that Malfoy doesn’t want him at all. It seems like he’s just toying with him, and he was a fool to ever think otherwise.

He’d tossed and turned all night the night before. As much as he hated it, Malfoy was all he could think about, Malfoy pressing him up against the wall and pressing his lips to Harry’s neck, so fucking close—

No. Harry’s not going to think about that right now, because every time he thinks about it his face heats, and he does _not_ need to look like he’s thinking about sex at work. It’s not worth it. He needs to finish his paperwork on the last set of wards he built before Watkins threatens to write him up again.

He tries his best to push it out of his mind, but his brain keeps going back to Malfoy, sitting across from him in the bar, calling him either a liar or a workaholic or maybe both. He’s maybe starting to understand Malfoy a little bit, but it’s not nearly as much as he’d like to, and even so, it’s so much more complicated now than it used to be.

Before the war it was simple. They both hated each other, and Harry was fighting for the Light and Malfoy, the Dark, and that was that—black and white as could be.

They don’t hate each other anymore, Harry thinks, and he wonders exactly when that happened. Malfoy still seems suspicious of him, but that had faded away as the night went on, and anyway it’s not like they’re at each other’s throats anymore.

Or, well, Malfoy _was_ at his throat, his brain helpfully reminds him, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and think forcefully of his paperwork to avoid getting an erection in his office.

He thinks of Malfoy telling him his life is pitiful, and he’s halfway through making a mental list of arguments to why it’s _not_ pitiful when he thinks better of it and decides he’s not allowed to think of Malfoy for the rest of his shift.

It’s fine. He can do this. He doesn’t need to be fixating on every single thing Malfoy says and does.

Even though he’s spent a longer portion of his life than he’d like to admit literally doing just that.

He resists the urge to bang his head down on his desk, if only for fear of smearing the ink on his paperwork.

The next time he goes down Knockturn, he avoids Malfoy’s stoop on the way home. He feels distinctly embarrassed about the idea of confronting him again so soon, and if Malfoy actually wants to see him, he can reach out to Harry himself.

It stings to think that Malfoy might not.

And he doesn’t.

It gets easier, as the days pass, to stop thinking about him, like the empty space left behind after a tooth falls out that slowly stops feeling quite so wrong. Harry almost thinks he has this thing under control—except that a week later, he’s having dinner with Ron and Hermione, and Malfoy’s name comes up out of the blue.

“So anyway,” Hermione is saying, “I was checking over the updated pureblood family registry before I sent it in for approval, and by chance I noticed that Malfoy’s name was missing—probably some legal irregularity, I assume, and—Harry, are you all right?”

Harry is not all right. He’s just choked on his stew, and he coughs loudly for several moments before he manages to calm down. “Sorry, I—just. Never mind. Keep going.”

“Still not over the Malfoy thing, are you?” Ron asks.

Harry stares at him in alarm. “What do you mean? What Malfoy thing?”

Ron sets his spoon down. “You know. The thing where you’ve been obsessed with him for forever? Don’t tell me you’re going to try to deny it again, Harry, we all know—”

“Oh! That thing,” Harry cuts him off, thoroughly relieved. “No, I mean—yes, I’m over it. Er, it’s fine,” Harry says, and then decides promptly that he’d like to sink through the floor rather than face their looks of sudden suspicion.

“Harry, is something going on?” Hermione’s brow is wrinkled in the way that means she’s worried about him, Merlin. He really is not ready for this conversation.

“It’s fine,” he insists, but her expression morphs into disbelief and instinctively knows that if he doesn’t at least tell them _something_ , they’re going to drag it out of him. He wonders if he should really admit this, given it’s Malfoy’s secret, but he’s not really sure he has a choice. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” he says. “But... I saw Malfoy on Knockturn a while back. Seems he’s a vampire now.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, her eyebrows raising. “Well, that’s useful to know for work—I should’ve thought to check the Creatures lists. But I wonder if that alone would disqualify him from the registry—hmm...” She Summons a leather-bound notebook, ‘Ministry Legal Department’ embossed in gold on the cover, which then results in a few seconds of silent conversation between Ron and Hermione that involves only facial expressions. They seem to be silently arguing about whether or not Hermione should be doing work at the dinner table, a fact that’s cemented by the triumphant smile on Hermione’s face as she finally looks away and opens her notebook.

“Er, if it helps,” Harry says, “It seems Malfoy’s been... er. Disowned.”

“Really,” Hermione says, sounding surprised. “Oh, _that_ would explain loads—” She cuts off and starts rifling through her notebook.

“So you actually talked to Malfoy, then?” Ron asks, an expression on his face that Harry remembers seeing back in Auror training when Ron was just about to interrogate a mock suspect.

Harry feels himself blanch. “Yeah, er. Just for a bit. Went to get drinks and catch up, you know—”

“You _what?_ ” Ron asks, then laughs shortly. Merlin, Harry’s made a mistake. “Drinks! With Malfoy!”

Even Hermione pauses in her rifling to look up at him. “How on earth did that happen?”

Harry is absolutely not about to admit to his two best friends that it’s almost purely because he wanted to fuck him. “I was curious,” he says after a moment. “And—I suppose he was too.”

“Well. Did it.... go? Okay?” Hermione asks after another moment of silent, wide-eyed conferral with Ron.

“Yeah, it did, actually,” Harry says, because—well, it didn’t end with scars or a broken nose, so that’s at least something, and with all things considered he thinks an unfortunate erection is relatively tame for how it usually is between them.

Another shared look between Ron and Hermione. Harry would be getting kind of sick of it happening in front of him if they hadn’t been doing it for years, and usually because they’re worried about him.

He thinks with some resignation that maybe Malfoy was partially right—he’s kind of just accepted that his life is pretty dull. Which is to say that his life is a mess that’s barely held-together by the fact that he ignores all his problems in favor of working too much, and it will probably continue to be like that for the foreseeable future, because he doesn’t know how to change it even if he wanted to. He and Ron and Hermione are all well aware of it, and unfortunately it seems now like Malfoy knows it too.

“Well, as long as you’re being careful,” Hermione says slowly.

“Of course,” Harry says, even though it’s kind of a lie. It’s fine. It’s not like this is even an issue anymore, seeing as Malfoy clearly hasn’t cared enough to try and contact him.

“He’s a vampire, yeah?” Ron asks, finally going back to eating his stew. “He’s didn’t try and bite you or anything, did he?”

Harry immediately feels his face go hot and fervently hopes they can’t tell. “No! No,” he says. “He’s not _dangerous_ or anything.” Except possibly to Harry’s heart.

“That’s what you say about all of your jobs, too,” Hermione says, lips thin as she goes back to her notebook. “Which is an attitude I _seem_ to remember putting you in St. Mungo’s more than once.”

Harry frowns. “There was dark magic that interacted badly with the wards _one time_ —”

“And the bloke that cursed you,” Ron chimes in.

“Don’t forget the time the building fell in and you almost got crushed,” Hermione adds.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Harry grumbles. “But I ended up fine, didn’t I?”

“The point is that you’re not indestructible, Harry,” Hermione emphasizes, sounding flustered. “I wish you would stop pretending you were.”

“I’m not—”

“Mate,” Ron says, holding up a hand to stop him from going off, and Harry deflates.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll be careful, okay? I promise. Anyway, this is different. It’s Malfoy. We know him.”

Hermione tilts her head. “Do we?”

Harry looks down at his stew and shrugs. He’s not sure, not sure at all. Then he thinks of Malfoy’s pale hands and red lips and really, really wishes he _did_ know him.

He’s been doing a good job of forcing himself to ignore him, he thinks, but that hasn’t made Harry want him any less.

He wishes it had.

xXx

When a letter from Malfoy arrives at Harry’s window several nights later, Harry is nervous to open it. He sits on the edge of his bed and takes a deep breath to calm himself.

He has to be really fucking gone over Malfoy for this to be affecting him this much, doesn’t he? Or maybe it’s that somewhere, deep down, he’s always cared about what Malfoy thought of him.

He hates this. But of course he’s going to read the letter anyway.

Resigned to the fact that whatever Malfoy’s sent him is either going to make him very happy or very upset, his heartrate speeds as he unrolls the bit of parchment.

It’s just a short note. ‘ _Fancy a night out? –Draco_.’

Harry stares at the name on the parchment, his given name, and lets out a breath of relief. He’s not entirely sure why he even still wants to go out with Malfoy after what happened the last time, but the fact that Malfoy wants it enough to have asked feels reassuring somehow.

Harry writes back that he supposes that wouldn’t be so bad, and minutes later, Malfoy responds with nothing but a Floo address. Harry immediately panics, because it’s ten p.m. but does that mean he’s supposed to go over _now?_ Also he doesn’t have any idea what to wear because he hasn’t been on a night out for years, and he has to hurriedly go through his closet to find a shirt that’s not too wrinkled. He comes out with a dark green polo that’s maybe a little too tight, but he’s not going to risk Engorgioing it and so he’ll have to deal with the slight discomfort.

He checks the time. It’s been maybe ten minutes since he received the last owl, and it’ll seem horribly overeager if he goes over right now, so he forces himself to wait another ten before he wonders if maybe now he’s actually running late. Fuck. He gets up and heads to his fireplace, tosses a handful of Floo powder in and shouting out Malfoy’s address.

The apartment he lands in is startlingly normal. He’d expected something a bit more pretentious, he thinks, and though the room is certainly tidy and neat, it looks surprisingly lived in. There’s an armchair and a couch with a blanket thrown over the back, a couple of bookshelves, and over by the window, a small collection of houseplants.

He has only seconds to orient himself before Malfoy comes around the corner, an empty glass in hand. His dress shirt has thin black stripes on it this time, and the cuffs are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Harry’s eyes catch immediately on his Dark Mark, faded but still visible, and when he looks back at Malfoy’s face he knows Malfoy’s noticed.

Malfoy doesn’t deign to address it, and Harry’s relieved. “Good, you’re here,” Malfoy says instead. Then he turns and beckons for Harry to follow him, so Harry does, trailing after him into the small kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” Harry says, letting Malfoy pour him a glass of cheap firewhisky. For some reason this more than anything reminds him that Malfoy’s been disowned—not that he cares about whiskey quality, but part of him had expected Malfoy to have something more expensive. For a moment he’s lost in thought, thinking of how it must’ve felt to move from the Manor to a tiny flat on Knockturn, how vaguely humiliating it might be. Then again, Malfoy seems to be doing all right for himself. Harry supposes he has no idea. “So you... have a shop, right?” he asks hesitantly, and Malfoy nods. “How do you run it if you can’t be out during daylight?”

“The windows are charmed,” Malfoy tells him, leaning against the counter with his own glass in a casual way that Harry grudgingly thinks is hot. “There’s no real sunlight coming in the shop unless the door is open, so the danger is minimal. I brew the potions we need at night, and then I have assistants that help me with delivering orders and picking up supplies and the like.”

“Huh,” Harry says. “Don’t you sleep?”

“I do, but not for long. I don’t need it.” He shrugs. “Anyway, there are much more interesting things one can be doing besides sleeping,” he adds, winking.

Harry stares at him indignantly. “What the hell—Malfoy, you’re _flirting_ with me.”

Malfoy’s eyebrow raises. “Yes?”

“Well—stop it,” Harry tells him, frowning.

“Oh?” Malfoy says. Then he straightens and slowly walks closer, oh fuck, and for a moment his teeth go sharp and Harry’s entranced all over again, his breath coming fast, holding onto his glass for dear life as he sees Malfoy’s pupils narrow into slits. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s unfair,” is all Harry can manage, looking at Malfoy so close in front of him—“Fuck.”

Malfoy breaks the trance, blinking his eyes back to normal, and laughs. “Thought so.”

“I ought to punch you,” Harry grumbles, looking down into his glass as if it might hide the flush in his cheeks.

“I dare you to try,” Malfoy says, smirking. “I think you’ll find that I’m very unpunchable nowadays.”

“Ugh. What about hexes?” Harry asks, more out of curiosity than intent.

“Depends on the hex,” Malfoy answers. “Stunners don’t work that well. Bedroom spells, on the other hand...” His smirk widens.

“Merlin, are you always like this?” Harry asks, looking away because Malfoy’s expression is making him feel personally victimized, and he’s not sure that he can deal with it right now while he’s starting to get tipsy.

“Potentially,” Malfoy says vaguely, and Harry makes the mistake of looking up just as Malfoy’s swallowing back some of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the line of his collar. His shirt buttons are done all the way up today, and Harry has a sudden and intense urge to walk over and unbutton the top couple, to loosen him up a bit. Malfoy catches his eye then, raising his eyebrow in question. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, his eyes flicking back down to Malfoy’s collar on accident.

“Hm?” Malfoy says, even as he’s putting his glass down, meeting Harry’s eyes again, holding his gaze while he reaches up and undoes the first button of his shirt.

“Oh,” Harry says. His voice cracks.

Malfoy grins and undoes another, then another, showing his neck, his collarbones. “Better?”

Harry almost can’t breathe, let alone speak. He has to take a few tries to clear his throat. “And you said you weren’t interested in sleeping with me. You’re a liar.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy says, then laughs and takes another sip of his drink. Harry thinks that he likes seeing Malfoy laugh, and then he mentally groans as he acknowledges the fact that he likes seeing Malfoy no matter what expression is on his face.

He’s so fucked.

“Finish that,” Malfoy says, gesturing to Harry’s drink. “Then we can go.”

“Go where?” Harry asks, grudgingly lifting his glass.

“I know a place,” Malfoy answers.

Harry gives him an unimpressed look. “What does that even mean?”

“A club, obviously,” Malfoy says. “You’re no fun, Potter.”

“You’re the one who owled me,” Harry points out, because Malfoy _did_ and that at least has to count for something. “Anyway, I hate clubs,” he complains. They’re too loud and crowded and the music is always weird stuff he’s never heard of.

“Well you don’t _have_ to come,” Malfoy points out. “I’m perfectly capable of going and pulling by myself.”

“Oh, is that what you were planning on doing?” Harry says, a little tipsy and a little agitated at the idea—it makes him feel bold enough to take a step closer to Malfoy, to get into his space, and he’s intensely gratified to see Malfoy’s subtle inhale in response.

Malfoy’s eye glint. “Maybe,” he says, leaning on the counter, making no move to step away. “We’ll see.”

Ultimately Harry’s not getting his hopes up; he’s already resigned himself to another night of being incredibly sexually frustrated. If he had any sense, he’d just go home, but this is also probably the hottest thing he’s done in his entire dating history, so he decides he’s just going to ride it through. It’s probably some sort of stupid thematic metaphor—flirting with someone who could kill him, like flirting with death, but even Death has rejected him twice before.

Maybe third time’s the charm.

And that’s how they end up walking several blocks into Muggle London to a club Harry’s never heard of, even though there’s a faint shimmer of magic over the entrance that suggests the Muggles can’t see it. “How’d you know this was here?” Harry asks as they draw closer.

“I have my sources,” Malfoy says, shrugging. “They don’t care so much about the vampire thing here, as long as you’re discreet about it.”

Harry’s again caught up in the fact that Malfoy is probably going to end up fucking someone else tonight. He doesn’t realize he’s scowling until Malfoy elbows him lightly in the side.

“Come on, stop brooding. We’re here,” Malfoy says, and Harry resents that Malfoy’s just called him ‘brooding’ but follows him toward the door anyway. The signs in the windows are all done in neon, and Harry watches as Malfoy walks up and flashes the bouncer a pointy grin, the man raising a hand in greeting. He easily lets them through, into the club beyond, dark and filled with people.

“You’re buying,” Malfoy shouts over the music, and Harry rolls his eyes but relents because it’s not like he doesn’t have the money. He buys them each a glass of the most interesting mixed drink he can find on the menu, something fruity and colorful with too many liquors mixed in it to count, and Malfoy raises an eyebrow at his choice but doesn’t protest.

Harry’s not expecting Malfoy to take off soon after, to head off into the dance floor while Harry’s still halfway through his drink. Harry’s not sure whether he was meant to follow him or not, so in the end he stays put, staring moodily out in the crowd as he slowly embraces the thrum of the alcohol.

The club’s not so bad, he reflects once his cup is empty and he’s half-buzzed, and he Vanishes the cup as he looks around the room for Malfoy. He can’t see him, which is a shame. He’s not sure he wants to dance by himself.

“Where’d you go?” a low voice asks from beside him, and Harry jumps and turns to find Malfoy right there.

“Oh,” he says, steadying himself on Malfoy’s arm. “You’re here.”

Even under the dim bar lighting, disrupted every so often by the colorful lights from the dance floor, Harry can see Malfoy’s eyes flash at his proximity. “I am,” Malfoy says. “Miss me?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Being cagey, hmm?” Malfoy says, leaning into his ear, and Merlin, he’s so close. “I bet that means it’s true.”

“You’re such a prat,” Harry mutters instead of answering, and Malfoy laughs and then drags Harry out onto the dance floor despite Harry’s vague attempts to convince him otherwise.

It’s not as bad as Harry was expecting, especially with the extra alcohol in him. Actually, it’s far better than he was expecting, because as soon as they reach an empty space on the dance floor Malfoy pulls him in so close their hips are nearly touching.

“Fuck,” Harry says, too quietly to hear over the pounding of the music, as Malfoy slides a possessive hand onto Harry’s lower back and starts guiding him, moving along to the beat.

Malfoy pauses to direct Harry’s arms loosely around his body. “Come on, Potter,” he says. “Let loose for once.”

“Fine,” Harry says, and then he leans into Malfoy and lets himself move to the music, lets himself breathe in Malfoy’s scent, all lemons and smoke and sweat. Malfoy’s hands keep moving to different places around his back, his arms, his shoulders as they dance, and every time he moves Harry wants to shudder. He meets Malfoy’s gaze and Malfoy smiles at him, looking a little feral in a way that Harry absolutely thinks is hot. After a moment, Harry grins back, and he’s pleasantly surprised to see Malfoy’s eyes widen.

But not long after that, Malfoy pulls his arms away. “I do need to feed tonight,” he says in Harry’s ear, and his expression has gone carefully blank. “Sorry.”

Oh. Fuck. Okay. Harry nods. “I can, er. Wait. Or leave.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Whichever suits you,” he says, and for a moment Harry is so jealous he wants to scream.

He’ll probably leave, he thinks. He doesn’t think he can bear to be in the same place as Malfoy, seducing another man.

“Who?” he asks on impulse, because he’s curious and also apparently a glutton for pain.

“Not sure,” Malfoy says, looking around them, scanning the crowd. Harry sees the moment his eyes catch on someone, an attractive man with sandy hair and dimples, dancing alone and looking nearly the opposite of Harry. “Maybe him.”

Harry wants to ask ‘what’s so special about _him?’_ , but instead he nods and forces himself to look like he doesn’t care. “I’ll probably head out, then.”

“Sure, Potter,” Malfoy says, looking almost like he wants to say something else but seeming to think better of it.

Harry nearly wants to ask if he’ll see him later, after tonight, but Malfoy’s already walking away, and Harry shoves the words back down inside him along with the jealousy balled up in his chest.

He makes his way off the dance floor, glancing every so often at Malfoy, who’s walked confidently up to the other man—now they’re exchanging words, now they’re dancing, now Malfoy’s wrapping his arms possessively around him the same way he’d done with Harry. Harry means to leave, he really does, but instead he finds himself lingering until the two of them start making their way to the door.

Harry follows them.

This is wrong, he knows, but even as he tells himself that, he can’t stop himself from walking out into the cool night, from following Malfoy and the other man discreetly into the alleyway. Malfoy leads the man further down into the shadows, almost out of sight, and then he presses him up against the brick and kisses him.

Harry’s breath hitches as he thinks of how Malfoy almost, almost did that to him.

He should leave.

Instead, heart twisting painfully in his chest, he moves closer.

He has to stop himself from gasping audibly when Malfoy drops to his knees, fumbling with the man’s belt, undoing the fastener on his trousers. Harry takes another step, but then, oh fuck—his foot hits a loose rock, and too late he realizes he should’ve cast a Notice-Me-Not as it skitters down the path.

His hand flies to his wand to cast the spell, but it’s too late—Malfoy’s already spotted him, his eyebrows flicking upwards for the briefest of moments. Harry casts the Notice-Me-Not anyway. The other man still hasn’t seen him, and though Malfoy briefly trains his eyes on Harry, he doesn’t give him away.

Then Malfoy turns and opens his mouth wide, swallowing down the other man’s cock, and _fuck_. It’s maybe the hottest thing Harry’s ever seen.

He wishes it wasn’t.

The other man’s head hits the wall, his eyes closing as his hand finds its way into Malfoy’s hair, and it’s obscene, the way Malfoy looks with his mouth stretched open, bobbing his head on his cock.

Every now and then, Malfoy’s eyes meet Harry’s, and Harry’s brain shorts out as he fights the urge to go to him, to shove the other man away and kiss Malfoy like he’s been thinking of doing for days. He’s hard, he’s so fucking hard, and he leans his shoulder against the brick wall and imagines how it would feel if it were him instead, standing there with his cock down Malfoy’s throat.

When the man finally shudders and comes, Malfoy takes it, his eyes fluttering shut as the man bucks his hips. Then Malfoy stands, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, and whispers something in the man’s ear.

The man nods and unbuttons his collar.

Oh. Fuck. Harry had forgotten about this part.

Every logical thought in his mind is screaming that he should leave, that he should spare himself this image at least, but he can’t—he’s rooted to the spot. So he stands there and watches as Malfoy tilts his head to the side, as he bares his fangs and bites into the other man’s neck.

The other man shudders. Or maybe it’s just that Harry’s shaking, because he wants it so badly it burns, and fuck, something must be wrong with him. He shouldn’t think this is so hot, but he _does_ , and he aches to go over and tear Malfoy off the other man, to beg him, ‘bite _me_ instead.’

He’s not sure how long it goes on. He only knows that once it’s over, he still can’t move, even as Malfoy casts a spell to heal the bite marks, even as he hands the man a vial that at Harry’s best guess would be a blood-replenishing potion. Harry slumps against the wall, watching as the other man heads deeper into the alleyway and Disapparates.

Then Malfoy turns and looks at him, eyes serious. Harry’s emotions are all over the place and for a moment he wonders if Malfoy’s angry, but still, Malfoy comes to him anyway, and Harry lets out a breath of relief. Malfoy eyes him up and down, then lifts his wand and casts a _Finite_.

It’s not like Harry was in a Body Bind before. But it feels that way, as he slumps forward into Malfoy’s arms, head spinning with jealousy and unfairness and so much fucking yearning he could cry.

“I want...” he says, his voice rough. He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Malfoy rubs his back once, twice. “You liked that.”

“I didn’t want to,” Harry says, because really, he didn’t. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t mind,” Malfoy says. “I would’ve hexed you if I’d minded, you wanker.”

That makes Harry chuckle, and he relaxes for just a moment against Malfoy before pulling away. “You didn’t get off,” he tells him, some unhinged part of his brain wanting to blurt out that _he_ could do it, but he stops himself.

“Neither did you,” Malfoy points out, and his teeth are just a bit sharp when he smirks and leans into Harry’s ear. “Go home and take care of that,” he says. “Think of me.”

Harry shudders. “Fuck,” he says. “Okay.” He wants to kiss Malfoy more than he ever has, but Malfoy doesn’t want it, _still_ doesn’t want it even after holding him close like this, and disappointment tears down Harry’s spine. Malfoy steps away and starts walking down the alleyway, and Harry sucks in a breath and blurts out, “Why? Why don’t you want...?” ‘ _Me_ ,’ is how he’d meant to finish that, but he can’t bring himself to be so vulnerable. Showing Malfoy how much he actually cares about this would absolutely be his undoing.

Malfoy turns and looks at him, and Harry’s eyes widen, because there’s something in Malfoy’s face that almost makes it look like he wants it as much as Harry does. “I never said that,” Malfoy says, just like before. Then he turns in a crack of Apparition and is gone.

xXx

Harry goes home and strokes himself off in the shower, squeezing his eyes shut and imagining Malfoy there with him, Malfoy’s body slick, lips wet and pliant as they kiss. He comes gasping, blinking his eyes open in the too bright bathroom light, leaning his head against the shower wall with a thump.

He washes off, still thinking of Malfoy’s hands and lips and teeth.

He sleeps fitfully, and he can’t focus on anything at all the next day, which is a shame because it’s one of his increasingly few days off work. He’s almost tempted to go in and take an assignment just for something to do, but he knows himself well enough to know that he’s way too distracted for the intensity of ward magic right now, and he _did_ promise Ron and Hermione he’d try to be careful.

By the late evening, he’s resorted to pacing his apartment, anxiety and desire wound up so tightly inside him he feels like he could explode. Every step is another thought of Malfoy. Step. What did he mean last night? Step. If he really does fucking want Harry, why is he toying with him like this? Step. Harry thinks it’s hot, though. Of course he thinks it’s hot, or he wouldn’t keep torturing himself by going along with it. Step. Maybe he should just confront him.

He stops by the window. He wonders what’s the worst that could happen if he gives him an ultimatum—Malfoy will just reject him again, probably, which he’s done before. It’s not so bad. Maybe Malfoy will refuse to see him again at all, but even though that thought makes Harry’s chest hurt so much he can’t breathe, he has to admit it’s probably better in the long run than this terrible limbo he’s currently in.

Malfoy will reject him, will push him away, and then Harry will know for sure and can move on with his life. Maybe he can even go and actually get fucking laid for once.

He goes to the fireplace, steeling himself as he picks up a handful of Floo powder, throwing it on the flames. He prays Malfoy’s Floo is open, and moments after he shouts the name, the fire goes green.

He steps through before he can chicken out.

“Potter,” Malfoy says in surprise, before Harry’s even stepped all the way out. Harry shakes the dizziness of Floo travel off, looking to find Malfoy sitting on the couch, his eyes wide as he looks up at Harry. He’s in another white dress shirt, a book about some sort of herbs on his lap. An image flickers into Harry’s mind, of what it would be like to spend the night curled up here with him, reading some book or another in comfortable silence.

He’s really fucking gone on him, isn’t he? He wishes he hadn’t realized that, because that only makes this harder. God, what is he doing?

He resists the urge to step any closer, because he wants to touch Malfoy so much it hurts, and he knows that if he gives in and does it he’ll lose all motivation to confront him. “If you—” he starts, then has to miserably clear his throat. “If you don’t want me, then just say so, all right?” he forces out, chest heaving.

“Oh,” Malfoy says, his brows slowly knitting together. “Potter, I told you—I never said that.”

“Yeah, I know—what the fuck is that supposed to _mean?_ ” Harry asks, and he knows he’s getting angry but he can’t help it because he hates having things purposefully hidden from him, has hated it since he was used as a pawn for half of the war and sent to the forest to fucking die.

Malfoy is caught off-guard—Harry can see it in the way he opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. Then Malfoy sighs and shuts his book, setting it on the coffee table. “I don’t...” He swallows audibly. “I don’t know how to say this,” he says, and for the first time since Harry saw him out on the stoop that one night, he looks scared.

Harry’s anger deflates, leaving him cold. He still aches to touch him. “Can I... sit down?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Malfoy says, and Harry goes and sits in the armchair tucked in the corner because as much as he wants to, it’s really not a good idea to go any closer.

“So. Are you going to explain?” Harry asks, but then Malfoy sighs and stands up.

“I need a drink,” Malfoy says, motioning toward the kitchen with his head. “Want one?”

Harry accepts, and then he sits and waits, mind racing with possibilities as he listens to Malfoy clattering about in the kitchen. He’s starting to feel hopeful, which scares him, because there’s still the chance Malfoy’s going to reject him completely, and then where will he be?

Malfoy comes back and hands him a glass, and Harry is thankful for the coolness of it against his skin. He stares at the ice cubes Malfoy’s put in it this time, two of them, clinking around against each other as he takes a sip. It’s not whiskey this time—it’s something else, something sweet and spicy and comforting, and he savors the feeling of it in his throat as he waits for Malfoy to say something.

“Potter,” Malfoy says finally, and sighs. “I think you’re attractive, okay?”

Harry stares at him, heart jumping into his throat. “You certainly didn’t act like it.”

“I know,” Malfoy says, looking away. “I didn’t... I couldn’t...” He shakes his head. “I’ve thought that for a long time, okay? And when you first found me out on the front steps back then—I didn’t fucking know what to do about it.”

Harry feels suddenly a little dizzy. Malfoy thinks he’s attractive—oh God. “Then why didn’t you want to sleep with me?” he asks, just one of the many questions swarming his brain. _Why didn’t you let me touch you? Why didn’t you kiss me?_

“Because I didn’t think you were taking this seriously,” Malfoy tells him, eyes cautious. “To be honest, I’m still not sure. You—you had the same look in your eye that everyone else does at first, when they find out I’m a vampire. Like you were only there for the danger of it.” His lips twist. “That’s all anyone wants from me anymore.”

Fuck. “No—no,” Harry says, shaking his head, and maybe Harry did want that at the beginning, just a little bit. But he knows instinctively that if it had been anyone but Malfoy sitting on that stoop, he wouldn’t have given them another thought. “It’s...” He looks at Malfoy. “It’s because it was you, I think. Not in spite of it.”

Malfoy stares at him, mouth rounded into a little ‘o’, and Harry is reminded unfairly of just how beautiful he is. “I...” Malfoy says, blinking. “Really?”

“You know, I haven’t had sex in—I dunno. A year or two? I don’t just... go around fucking whoever I want. And when I tried to, it didn’t work,” he says, a little disgruntled as he gestures between himself and Malfoy. “My life is boring and pitiful, remember?”

Malfoy sighs and has the sense to look apologetic. “I’m—sorry. That was unfair of me to say.”

“It was,” Harry agrees, “But—you’re right, honestly. I really don’t get out much. I prefer working, and—I dunno. It’s probably because I’m lonely, like you also pointed out.” He pauses for a moment. “And by the way, I’m very annoyed with you for forcing me to think about that.”

Malfoy laughs softly. It’s not a laugh Harry’s heard from him before—it sounds almost fond, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with that, because it terrifies him and makes his yearning increase tenfold all at once. “It’s your fault for reminding me how lonely _I_ am,” Malfoy tells him. “I was perfectly fine before you showed up at my door.”

“You were the one who was sitting there, looking—” Harry gestures at Malfoy—“like _that_.”

“Oh?” Malfoy says, looking pleased in an almost predatory way, and Harry’s breath hitches. “Do elaborate.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says, and Malfoy laughs.

“For the record—because I don’t think I was clear about this,” Malfoy says—“I do think you’re fit.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his cheeks going warm. “I—er...”

“If a bit of an idiot,” Malfoy tacks on, as if to cover for his moment of weakness, and Harry snorts.

“As if you’re not an absolute git.”

“Back to insults now, isn’t it?”

“You started it,” Harry accuses.

Malfoy looks smug. “Maybe I did.” He stretches, and Harry sips his drink and lets himself admire the long lines of Malfoy’s body. For once, he doesn’t even mind when Malfoy catches him looking. “So you...” Malfoy starts, then clears his throat. “What _did_ you want from this?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry says truthfully. He’s not going to say the idea of—of dating, or something, hasn’t crossed his mind. But it’s _Malfoy_. And more than that, they’ve only been not-enemies for so long. “I need some time to think about it, maybe.”

“Okay,” Malfoy says, nodding. “I would agree with that.”

“Okay,” Harry says, offering Malfoy a small smile. Malfoy smiles back, and it sends butterflies fluttering in his stomach in the warm way he hasn’t felt since—well, since he was first with Ginny.

He likes him, doesn’t he? He really likes him.

“Well,” Harry says after a moment. “I guess I should... probably leave?”

Malfoy nods. “For now,” he says.

Harry thinks he’s okay with that. There’s hope in his chest that wasn’t there before, and he stands up, setting his glass on the coffee table and moving over to the Floo.

He doesn’t realize Malfoy’s gotten up until he’s right behind him. “Wait,” Malfoy says, and Harry turns and he’s right there, nudging him up against the wall next to the fireplace. “I wanted to—since I didn’t, last time. If that’s all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, as Malfoy runs his knuckle up Harry’s jaw, and then he sighs out, “ _Malfoy_.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together. “You know I’m not Malfoy anymore.”

“Shit. Sorry,” Harry says, and amends it. “Draco?” The name feels warm, comfortable on his tongue.

“Salazar, that’s odd to hear from you,” Draco says, making a face. “I’m not calling you Harry, by the way.”

Harry laughs. “That’s fine, just—would you kiss me already, you fucking tease?”

“Insistent, hm?” Draco says, smirking, and before Harry can work a retort in he’s leaning in to kiss him—

Their lips finally meet, and Harry’s suddenly on fire. Draco’s mouth is cool against his own, his lips soft and insistent, and Harry clings to him, his heartrate skyrocketing. He has to break away for a moment to breathe. “Fuck,” he says, and then Draco laughs and kisses him again.

It’s more fervent this time on both sides, Draco crowding him against the wall and licking into his mouth, Harry clutching at Draco’s back and pulling him in tighter. Draco tastes sweet, like alcohol and honey—and then Harry can’t think anymore because Draco bites at Harry’s lip, and Harry can feel the points of his teeth and oh God, oh _God_. He’s so fucking hard.

“I want,” Harry says against his mouth, breaking apart, panting, even as Draco presses kisses to his jaw, his cheek. “I want you to bite me.”

“Fuck,” Draco groans, and Harry can feel it when Draco bucks his hips against him, oh Merlin.

“We’ve made bad decisions,” Harry says, his voice husky as Draco nips at his ear. “I think I was leaving.”

“You could go if you wanted,” Draco murmurs low in his ear, and Harry can’t suppress a full body shiver.

“I could,” Harry says, leaning in to nip at Draco’s neck, mimicking what he’s been longing for. “But I don’t want to.”

“Thank fucking Merlin,” Draco says, and then he leans back, eyeing him seriously. “If you really want me to do that—if you’re _sure_ —”

“I’m sure,” Harry says stubbornly, even as he feels his face grow warm. “I know I said I’m not here only because you’re dangerous, or whatever, but.” He swallows thickly. “But I do think it’s hot. Is that mad?”

“No,” Draco says, and dips his head in to kiss Harry thoroughly once more. “It’s not,” he says once they break apart, looking at Harry with a slow smirk. “But if I’m going to do it, we’re going to fuck first.”

“Merlin, yes,” Harry sighs out, and then Draco presses his face to Harry’s neck and breathes in, and Harry’s knees nearly give out. “Fuck, Draco—”

“Not yet,” Draco says, pressing the words into his skin, though he seems to be talking to himself more than Harry as he pulls away. “But soon.” He pauses, an amused look in his eyes. “You know, I knew you were following me out of the bar last night.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “You did?”

“Heightened sense of smell,” Draco says, grinning sharply. “I know your scent.”

For some reason Harry thinks that’s hot and he has no fucking idea why. “You didn’t stop me.”

“No. I think—” Draco looks at him coyly—“I think I wanted you to see.”

“Fucking _tease_ ,” Harry again, and when Draco laughs he kisses him so hard their teeth click together. When he pulls back, his eyes catch on Draco’s dress shirt, which is way, way too buttoned for the fact that they’re about to have sex, so he reaches up and fumbles with the buttons until he can get the first couple undone.

When he meets Draco’s eyes again, Draco is smirking. “Do you have a thing for buttons, Potter?”

Harry swallows, because what wants to come out is stupid and revealing and he’s going to say it anyway. “I think I just have a thing for you.”

Draco snorts. “I would say that was absolutely awful except that I think that it made me happy, which—isn’t that horrible? What have you done to me? I don’t even have a beating heart anymore and you’re making it go soft.”

Harry laughs and kisses him again. God. How did they get here?

They end up eventually making it to the bedroom, although they keep getting caught up kissing on the way, and it’s even longer until they make it on the bed because Harry gets preoccupied by undoing the rest of Draco’s buttons. “Oh,” he breathes, when he opens Draco’s shirt at last and immediately sees the faint outlines of scars, all across his chest and stomach.

“It’s fine,” Draco says, discarding his shirt on the floor. “They were worse when I was human.”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Harry says, briefly distracted. “I am sorry, you know.”

“Me too,” Draco says, “For everything.”

“I’ll forgive you for everything except the teasing,” Harry pretends to grumble, and Draco snorts and rolls his eyes.

“You liked it,” Draco accuses, hovering very close to Harry’s mouth, pulling away when Harry tries to kiss him.

“ _Stop_ that,” Harry complains, flushing. “Just because we’ve made out doesn’t mean I’m afraid to hex you.”

“You should be afraid,” Draco says, grinning, his teeth glinting. “The things I could do to you.”

Harry goes dizzy with wanting. “Have at me then,” he says, reaching forward to tug at Draco’s trousers, suddenly wanting to expedite the process of removing their clothes. He’d Vanish them if he didn’t think Draco would throw a fit.

“Oh I will,” Draco says, shucking his trousers and pants off once they’re undone. “But—just so you know... You do know I won’t bite you during sex, right?”

Harry stares at him, suddenly disappointed. “Really?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to control it,” Draco says, regret in his expression. “Not when I’m... otherwise occupied. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh,” Harry says again, and busies himself with taking off his own clothing, purposefully hiding his face.

Draco waits until they’re both naked before he pulls Harry close and furrows his brow and says, “You really wanted that?”

“I can live without it,” Harry says, even though he really _did_ want it. “I’m not going to complain either way, but. It seems...” He bites his lip. “It just seems like it’d be hot—to have you lose control.”

“You _are_ in this for the danger,” Draco says, eyebrows shooting up.

“Maybe I am,” Harry says brazenly—and oh God, he was not prepared for Draco to leer at him in response, for Draco’s teeth to sharpen and his eyes to change and for Harry to feel that unmistakable, magnetic pull toward him. “Fuck,” Harry breathes, and he’s achingly hard as Draco backs him toward the bed.

Then Draco presses him down against the bedspread and kisses him in a way that feels possessive, feral, and Harry’s body sings as he kisses back with as much intensity as he can give.

“You’re _so_ ,” Harry says, panting. “Hot.”

Draco smirks. “I know,” he says, making Harry roll his eyes.

“Modest, much?”

“Potter, you’ve been looking at me like you want to eat me instead of the other way around,” Draco tells him. “It’s rather obvious.”

Harry would be embarrassed if Draco wasn’t currently trailing a hand down his chest, tweaking at his nipple with a thumbnail, making it very hard to think at all. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” Draco says, and then quirks his head. “So— _have_ you fucked a man before?”

“Yes, I have,” Harry says, shooting him a look. “Thanks for assuming I was a complete prude before, by the way.”

“And you’re not?” Draco says, smirking until Harry punches him in the arm. “Okay, okay, fine. I hope you know that didn’t hurt. Anyway—do you have a preference?”

Harry’s still secretly hoping that Draco can be convinced to bite him while they fuck. “You can top,” he says, and the slow leer of a smile that appears then on Draco’s face makes Harry’s mouth go dry.

“Good,” Draco says, low and husky, and he finds his wand and Summons lube from a drawer across the room.

They shift so they’re more properly centered in the bed, and Draco nudges Harry’s legs open, pressing his knees upward and sitting between them. Then he meets Harry’s eyes, grins, and promptly twists a slick finger inside of him. “ _Oh_ , ah—” Harry flushes furiously, breath hitching at the burn. “It _has_ been a while.”

“Shit, sorry,” Draco says, and slows the speed at which he’s pressing in and out.

“No, don’t slow down, it’s fine,” Harry says, clenching his teeth until the pulse of pain fades. “Just—letting you know.”

“You think you can take it?” Draco says, smirking at him, and Harry groans and nods, then groans louder when Draco presses a second finger tight inside him.

“Fuck,” Harry says, trying to focus on steadying his breathing as he adjusts. It feels good.

“We can slow down,” Draco offers.

“No,” Harry says stubbornly. “I’ve been _trying_ to get you to do this for weeks, if you remember.”

“I suppose you have,” Draco says, and adds a third finger.

Fuck. Harry gasps at first, but the too-sharp sensation quickly wears off, until he’s left groaning as Draco’s fingers twist and curl against his prostate. Draco finger fucks him like that, meeting his eyes until Harry’s so caught up in it he has to squeeze them shut, working him up until he starts to get nervous he’s going to come way earlier than he wants to. “Okay—okay. I’m ready,” Harry gasps out. He can’t wait any longer.

Draco doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. He only slicks up his cock and then spells his hands clean before climbing over him, fitting himself into the space between Harry’s thighs. “You know,” Draco says, his fangs visible and sharp in his mouth, “I’ve wanted this for a whole lot longer than a few weeks.”

“Have you?” Harry asks, skating his gaze over Draco above him, his slitted eyes, his fangs, his pale skin and his scars.

“I have,” Draco says. “Maybe years.”

Then he positions his cock and pushes slowly inside him, and Harry loses all ability to speak, clutching at Draco’s sides and squeezing his eyes shut. Fuck, Draco is inside him, oh God—“Fuck,” he says aloud, nearly a whimper. “You feel good.”

“Potter,” Draco groans out, and then he leans down and kisses him as he thrusts in again.

Harry can’t decide where to put his hands. He can barely think once they set up a rhythm—he’s so heady and warm and frantic that he just wants to touch Draco everywhere he can. He slides his hands over the cool skin of his back, his shoulders, down to the swell of his arse, then back up to just under his shoulder blades. Draco meets his eyes then, searching carefully into the depths of his soul. “Wh—what?” Harry asks, breath catching on the word.

“Against— _oh_ , against my better judgement, I’m. I’m thinking about biting you.”

“Fuck,” Harry groans. The words go straight to his cock, and he works a hand down in between them, stroking himself in time with Draco’s hips. “Do it.”

“Ask nicely,” Draco says, smirking with a particularly sharp snap of his hips, and Harry moans.

“Oh, fuck. Please,” Harry asks, and then again, as Draco kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck—“ _Please_.”

Draco’s lips press gently against his neck, openmouthed, and he sucks a hickey into Harry’s skin, making Harry shudder. “You sure?” he asks teasingly.

If Draco makes him wait any longer Harry just might lose it. “ _Yes_ , I’m fucking sure, just— _oh_ , please.”

“I’ll be careful,” Draco says then, his voice low in a way Harry’s never heard it before, and Harry only has time to think that oh God, this is actually _happening_ before Draco bites him.

It stings, of course it does, the sharp nip of Draco’s teeth into his neck, and Harry lets out a choked off moan. Then Draco’s there, sucking at the bite, laving over it with his tongue as he drinks, and his hips have slowed to a particularly effective rhythm that has Harry gasping on every thrust.

“Holy fucking _shit_ ,” Harry groans out. He’s going light-headed, he thinks, and all he can feel is pleasure, hot in his body as he tries to focus on stroking himself. Then Draco moans against his neck, suckling again in a way that stings sharply, and all of a sudden Harry’s gone—he comes hard, body spasming beneath the press of Draco’s hips, his body, his mouth. “Draco, Draco,” he cries out, the only word he can think as he goes so light-headed he sees stars.

Draco pulls away from his neck, gasping, blood running down chin as he readjusts and fucks into Harry faster. It’s only seconds before he comes, groaning, pressing deep inside him and resting his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. “Oh,” he moans, and then, in a voice so quiet Harry barely hears it—“ _Harry_.”

Harry grins and holds him closer, though he’s still almost too light-headed to focus and his limbs don’t quite want to work all the way. Draco pulls out of him then, looking like he wants to slump onto the bed beside him—except then he looks at Harry and goes impossibly paler.

“Fuck, you’re still bleeding, I forgot—fuck,” Draco says, grasping frantically for his wand to close the wound, and oh—no wonder he’s so light-headed. Harry would almost want to laugh if Draco didn’t look so troubled by it, so he just watches as Draco Summons a blood-replenishing potion and Scourgifies the pillow under Harry in quick succession.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” Harry says, even as Draco forces him to sit up and drink the potion.

“I shouldn’t have—I could’ve lost control, I could’ve accidentally _turned_ you, and then you’d—you’d—”

“Draco,” Harry says firmly. “Look at me.”

Draco does.

“That was fucking brilliant, okay?” Harry says. “And if you don’t want to do it again, we don’t have to, but it’s not something I regret. I’m...” He reaches down and squeezes his hand. “I’m not scared of you.”

Draco stares at him. “You should be,” he says sullenly, but then his shoulders relax just the slightest bit. “But... all right,” he says. He sets the empty potion down on the bedside table. “I mean, I liked it—of course I did. It was just dangerous.”

“I trust you,” Harry says, finding that he really does mean it.

“I—oh,” Draco says, his brow furrowing for a moment. “I trust you too,” he says, and Harry can’t help grinning.

“Took you long enough.”

“I had to be _sure_ ,” Draco says fussily.

Harry laughs. “I know,” he says.

Draco sighs and pulls him into a hug, and then tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to the mark on Harry’s neck. “I should heal this better,” he mumbles into Harry’s skin, turning to grab for his wand, but Harry stops him.

“No,” Harry says. “Leave it.”

Draco looks at him, shaking his head. “You’re an absolute idiot, you know,” he says, but then slowly, his lips spread into a sharp grin. “But kinky. I like it.”

Harry laughs and kisses him. “Don’t pretend you aren’t too.”

“Fine,” Draco says, and rolls his eyes. “We’re both kinky idiots,” he relents.

“That’s better,” Harry says, kissing him again. He slides his hand up Draco’s chest, over the scars, over his no longer beating heart. He thinks about what it would be like to date him, wonders if dating him means they’ll get to do this whenever they want—and of course there are less fun things too, like coming out to the papers, like telling Ron and Hermione, dear _Merlin_.

But then Harry meets Draco’s eyes as he reaches up and touches his own neck, feels for the marks where Draco’s teeth were, and thinks that it’s all worth it if it means he gets to have this.

Draco grins at him, and Harry feels more alive than he has in years.

**Author's Note:**

> visit us on tumblr!! [alpha-exodus](https://alpha-exodus.tumblr.com/) and [cree](https://creeeee.tumblr.com/) :')))


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